


The Ghost Witcher

by CassLikesFic



Series: A Bestiary of Witchers [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cintran Romance Novels, Crack Treated Seriously, Geralt is Too Good In Bed To Be A Real Person and Is Therefore A Ghost, I Appreciate Your Vigour, Other, POV First Person, Thanks For The Opportunity, Ye Olde Sexy Times, reader could be any gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/CassLikesFic
Summary: This final tale we are including though it is clearly nought but the romantic fancy of the Redanian brothels. The story of the Ghost Witcher, with hair pale as winter snow, who pays in both common coin and his partners' pleasure, then vanishes before the dawn’s light.Unlike the other tales found within this slim volume, only one person has shared this story with us. It is not commonly known. This leaves your editor to remark that you should take this story in the spirit it has been presented - as a fantasy story spun to titillate bed house workers, and not a true telling of sharing a bed with a Witcher.Our naive and inexperienced readers are advised to take the previous accounts in this book as fact, and avoid the touch of a Witcher. Witchers are poisonous fruit - dazzling to the eye but deadly to the taste. Such pursuit leads only to the ruin and discomfort of virtuous people.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: A Bestiary of Witchers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657954
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	The Ghost Witcher

_This final tale we are including though it is clearly nought but the romantic fancy of the Redanian brothels. The story of the Ghost Witcher, with hair pale as winter snow, who pays in both common coin and his partners' pleasure, then vanishes before the dawn’s light._

_Unlike the other tales found within this slim volume, only one person has shared this story with us. It is not commonly known. This leaves your editor to remark that you should take this story in the spirit it has been presented - as a fantasy story spun to titillate bed house workers, and not a true telling of sharing a bed with a Witcher._

_Our naive and inexperienced readers are advised to take the previous accounts in this book as fact, and avoid the touch of a Witcher. Witchers are poisonous fruit - dazzling to the eye but deadly to the taste. Such pursuit leads only to the ruin and discomfort of virtuous people._

_* * * * *_

The Ghost Witcher appears in bed houses well after nightfall, clad in all black. If he speaks, it is only briefly. His hood is pulled low, to shade his eyes and hair, which mark him for what he is. If you are daring enough to name him Witcher, meet his eyes, and boldly ask for a tale, that will be as good as a banishment. Keep those words close in your mind, or else spend the rest of your days longing for a touch you will know only for the shortest time.

Know the Ghost Witcher by these marks, reader, and stay well away. Fair hair, pure and white as snow and softer than silk under the curious hand that touches it. Golden eyes that dazzle like the polished coin he offers. Full lips, through which no words pass until agreement is made. Know him by the strong line of his jaw, aristocratic nose, strong build and great height. Know him to be what he is when he stands before you, unspeaking, and gazes upon you with those golden eyes, hearing what you have to offer him in exchange for his coin.

Those untouched have nothing to fear, for he will not take to bed those who are unfamiliar with love’s sweet sighs. You are safe, dear reader, snug at home in your chair, your reading nook, your bed. Your virtue protects you as nothing else will. But imagine, then, that you are familiar with the work he pays you for.

Take his coin and his hand, dear reader, lead him to the bed where your business is conducted.

Imagine what awaits you there.

_* * * * *_

You will be paid in ordinary coin for an extraordinary act.

Calm yourself, dear reader. Though your heart beats faster at the thought of his touch, at the low murmur of his voice, dark and soft as the thick curtains that protect you from prying eyes. He will not ask anything of you you will not eagerly give to him.

Think of that and shiver. Your undoing will be your own doing.

Only two things will he ask of you. Tell him what pleases you, and show him how you like it best.

Do not let your hands linger on the scars that mark his body as he undresses. Do not show sympathy for his pain. Any one of these marks may have been the blow that killed him, and in reminding him that he is no longer truly flesh, he will leave you unfulfilled.

Keep your voice to words of desire and sounds of pleasure. He knows those well. He will drink them down as a vampire will drain your heart’s blood, greedy for more. Until the only noises you have left to make are exhausted, sated sighs, and soft shaking breaths.

Answer his questions, dear, _experienced_ reader.

Answer them fully, and he will give you what you desire until you beg for mercy.

Do not fear what lays waiting under the leather of his armor. His hands are sure and strong, his touch gentle (until and unless you crave a rougher caress, and dearest reader, it is not our place to judge your tastes). He has a shape familiar and generously proportioned to anyone who enjoys the caress of men. No spines lay in wait for you, no barbs, nothing that you would not find waiting beneath the trousers of a gentle lover in your sweetest dreams.

He will make sure you are ready and eager for what comes next. With a quick, wickedly clever tongue against your most delicate places, with careful fingers and lips that bring you screaming. With arcane potions of devilish slickness, to heighten your enjoyment and ease his way.

You have heard men boast of their control, their stamina, their ability to recover, their prowess in the acts of love. He does not boast. He has no need. He will not tire until you do. He will not stop pleasing you until at last, you cry, “Enough!”

When at last you plead for mercy, he will touch you with tender hands. He will make sure that his caresses only pleased you, that your cries were never those of pain. You will murmur your thanks for your fate, hoping to draw him into one last embrace, but he will already be gone.

You will sink into the sweetest, most sated, most exhausted sleep, and dream of his touch every night after.

You will never see him again.

Think of this subtle torture, dear reader.

Think on it in the comfort of your chaste, cool bed, your reading nook, your chair.

Can you see the danger? Would you take his coin and hand? Knowing no flesh and blood would ever satisfy you after. Knowing you could only have it once.

Do you think you could be the one to have only a single taste, and be satisfied with lesser delights for the lifetime of nights that followed?

You would not.

You are no stronger than I.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a goofy crack idea I was kicking around with my writing partner - a bestiary designed to frighten virtuous nobles away from the forbidden fruit of sharing a Witcher's bed. I have no idea how to properly tag this, but I'm going to try my best. I may or may not add to this, but I made it a series just in case. Thanks for reading!
> 
> [Come find me on tumblr!](https://poisonousbuttercup.tumblr.com/)


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